Cage
by CRebel
Summary: When Peter cuts a deal with Neal, the con man isn't the only one involved. Neal's fourteen-year-old daughter, Cage, also gets a second shot at life. The trouble comes when that life begins to pull Cage in different directions and she must decide where her loyalties really lie.


**Disclaimer: I own nothing of _White Collar._**

**_. . . . ._**

Things were fine until Kate left.

Really, things were good. Or, as good as they could be. After your father's been in jail for so long, it becomes old hat. You don't cry yourself to sleep anymore. You learn to laugh again, to eat your favorite foods, to do the things you've always enjoyed, and your dad? Well, you see him on a timetable and never mention his orange jumpsuit. Life goes on.

Life went on for me. But then Kate destroyed it all. After being there for most of my life, after being my legal guardian for five years, boom. Gone. And I was left in foster care. I don't think anyone can blame me for running. And yet, here I am, in a glass room, windows to the city behind me, windows to the office in front of me. The Bureau, they'll call it. Like father, like daughter: Cassandra Guinevere Caffrey has been brought in by the FBI.

And now, here he is, the ringleader of the circus that brought my life crashing down half a decade ago.

"Hello, Agent Burke," I say.

He settles in his chair, folds his hands together, leans forward on the table. His voice is flat, tinged with weariness.

"Hi, Cassandra."

"I actually go by Cage."

It's been almost two months since I saw Burke last, when he very much unexpectedly came to see me a few days after I was put into the system. He hasn't changed. That's not saying much, though, since that last visit was the first time I'd seen him in over four years, and he hadn't changed much in that time, either.

I clear my throat. "Why am I here? Dealing with teen runaways isn't FBI territory."

"No, it isn't." He leans back in his chair. "But it was requested I speak with you."

I choose not to ask why any of the powers that be thought I might respond best to this man of all people. Maybe I'll get out early on good behavior.

"This is the third time you've run away from a foster home in less than two months," he says. I wonder if he has kids. He has the disappointed father look down pat. I glance at his left hand. Wedding ring. Oh, yeah, he has to have kids. He's the type.

I cross my legs underneath me, resting my hands on my lap, making a point to show him just how relaxed I am. Even though I'm not relaxed at all. "I've only run away from two homes, though. So really, if you think about it, it's not as bad as it sounds."

"Oh, it's pretty bad. On the streets of New York is not exactly the safest place for a fourteen-year-old girl to live."

"I'm not dead yet."

"And when you are?"

"When I am?"

"When you are, how's your father going to take it?"

I clench my chair's armrests. I keep my eyes on his. "I'm sure they have wonderful grief counselors in prison, Agent Burke. That is still where my father is, you know – well, of course you do, he sends you birthday cards, right? Does he sign my name?"

"Cassandra, do you think this is a joke?" Burke sounds more tired than anything else. I open my mouth to answer, but he cuts me off, rubbing his eyes. "No sarcastic remarks, please."

"I wasn't planning on making a sarcastic remark, sir. I was only going to admit that, yes, the idea that my meeting with the man who put my father in prison for five years might be the key to my rehabilitation does strike me as a very sad attempt at a joke."

"Your father was not an innocent party."

"No," I say. "_He_ wasn't."

I feel a blush touch my cheeks here. I didn't mean to say that. I didn't mean to imply –

Burke works his jaw. Damn it. He sighs, looks down and then up. "Cassandra . . ."

I clear my throat.

"_Cage _. . . None of what you've been put through because of your father has been fair. I know that. And I am truly sorry."

"Thank you." I want to go. Child Services should be here any minute. For once, I look forward to their arrival.

"But there is nothing that running away can get you. If you learned anything from your father, it's that getting caught is inevitable."

"I learned a great deal from my father other than that, actually." When I say this, I'm thinking of things like French, and sketching, and how to make the perfect pancake. Hearing it, though, I know right away that Burke will interpret it as something different. To be specific, he'll interpret it as my foreshadowing an upcoming wild and crazy career as con artist. I could change that, fast, say something, just a few words, bat my eyes, convince him I'm merely the poor victimized daughter of a convict, but I'd rather not. I only look at him through my eyelashes. Let him think what he will.

He studies me back. Yeah, I bet he thinks he has me all figured out. "Of course, there is the possibility that getting caught is exactly what you want."

I chuckle.

"What?"

"Nothing. Nothing. That is definitely a possibility."

"When's the last time you saw your dad?"

"For God's sakes . . ." I make myself stop, remind myself where I am. Who I'm with. I proceed with caution. "Agent Burke, with all due respect, you are not a social worker and you are certainly not someone I feel comfortable receiving advice from where it concerns my relationship with my father."

He pauses for a moment, narrows his eyes, shakes his head. "Are you seriously fourteen?"

I wish he would stop doing that. Playing nice.

The glass door opens. A dark-skinned woman leans into the room. Her eyes slide over me and then land on Burke. "Child Services is here to pick her up."

"Thank you, Diana."

The woman leaves. I stand, pulling up the backpack that's rested so faithfully at my feet. Burke looks up from his chair.

"Sorry," I say. "May I go?"

He pushes away from the table, stands, straightens his tie. I mean to go to the door. But something in Burke's eyes makes me stand still. He's not done.

"Your father will be out in a few months, you know," he says. Gently. "He'll regain custody of you."

I tighten my grip on the backpack strap. If he only knew how often I thought of that. "Yeah. And I'm sure we'll pick up right where we left off."

"Right where you left off, huh?"

I think back to it, the running, Europe, big cities, priceless paintings, lost artifacts. The cons. I think back to it all, and I see every bit of it reflected in Burke's eyes.

"It was a pleasure seeing you, Agent Burke. As always."

I walk out of the room, and, God willing, out of his life. I have a new foster home to hate.


End file.
